


No Room for Mice on That Throne

by Zangofel



Series: Damn Stubborn Dreamer [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Books are purchased, Dorian is a strange mix of irritating and endearing, Josephine is adorable, Other, Post-Relationship Angst, Silly frilly things, Tamsin gets her head forcibly removed from her ass, Vivienne is enigmatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4760642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zangofel/pseuds/Zangofel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tamsin thought she was pretty self-aware. She is proven wrong, and coaxed back to herself by some belligerently loving friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wherein Vivienne is Immaculate

**Author's Note:**

> Character development ahoy!

Tamsin finds, in the weeks following the end of her relationship with Solas, that breakups _suck_.

She always knew they were terrible, and had experienced a few when she was younger, but it had always been different, always more… final. It helped that the only one that had hurt had been with a hunter from another clan, so they could avoid each other entirely. 

But being in Skyhold near Solas, catching sight of him when she enters the rotunda to speak with Dorian or Leliana, planning her traveling parties around him, feeling the ache in her body and emptiness in her bed from his absence… it’s all more painful than she thought it would be. 

A week or so after their evening on the tower, Tamsin wakes up and cleans her teeth and splashes her face with cool water as usual. As she’s drying her face, she looks up and catches sight of herself in the mirror. _No wonder it wouldn’t work,_ she thinks, _look at me._ She immediately knows the thought is madness—Solas’s opinion of her looks had never been in doubt, and he had reaffirmed it up until and including their last evening, and besides, she’s never had a problem with her own face before—but the worm of self-doubt sneaks into her thoughts and digs in, and does not leave. 

It starts to get to her. She doesn’t really think about it, but in hindsight she realizes that it was there, apparent to anyone who was looking. She starts putting her hair into a single braid that hangs down her back, lacking the motivation or desire to do anything more complicated—or flattering. Dorian soon offers to teach her a complicated Tevinter braiding style. She declines. Iron Bull pulls her into sparring practice a few times, pitting her against Krem or Dalish, sometimes even going against her himself. She’s grateful for the distraction, but that’s all it is.

There is a lot of planning to be done.  As soon as Harding reaches the Western Approach and sends her report, Tamsin goes to meet up with Hawke and Stroud, bringing Varric, Blackwall and Dorian with her. Their encounter with Erimond leaves a bad taste in everyone’s mouth, and as soon as they return to Skyhold, Tamsin starts preparations for what will be a siege on Adamant fortress. But preparing a siege takes time—a _lot_ of time—and so she has nothing to give her purpose, outside of planning and waiting for their forces to muster.

She can’t stand to be alone in her quarters, and her old comfort of reading in Solas’s study is no longer an option. Eventually, almost without thinking about it, she starts visiting Cullen more often. He seems pleasantly surprised by this, once he gets used to her presence, and she is relieved to find that with him, as with Dorian, Bull, Varric, and on a good day, Vivienne, her chest aches a little less. 

She ventures south to check on reports of a new cluster of rifts, and finds that not only is there a new cluster of rifts, they’re _very_ close to each other, which is _wonderful_ , because it pits her, Dorian, Blackwall and Cassandra against four times the usual number of demons. A rage demon gets behind her as she’s trying to close the third of four rifts and leaves an impressively terrible wound down her side and her leg, reopening her healed but tender hip.  The journey back to Skyhold is slow and difficult, and Dorian has to steady her with a spell before she can walk up to her rooms without limping atrociously. The surgeon visits her there, a cheerful Elle in attendance, and murmurs about how lucky Tamsin was that the wound had not been worse. 

“Yes, lucky,” Tamsin agrees drily. “I am so fortunate that I constantly find myself against foes who are stronger and faster than me, but who I still must subdue in Andraste’s name.”

Elle giggles at the thick sarcasm in her voice, but the surgeon taps the skin beside Tamsin’s wound sharply, earning a yelp of pain. 

“You are lucky, Inquisitor, that you find yourself in these difficult battles and emerge with flesh wounds. You are _very_ lucky. You could have easily lost your leg.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Tamsin replies meekly and the surgeon, mollified, patches her up. 

She goes to visit Cullen once she’s bandaged and dressed in clean clothes, asks him simple questions about the state of things, and eventually finds herself perched on a hay bale in his office, spinning one of his small throwing daggers—which she hadn't known he _had—_ in her fingers and thinking. She remembers how, shortly after this whole mess with the breach started, a near-fatal error on a fight had made it painfully clear just how out of her depth she was. She had spent the next two months training on her own nearly every night, until she was sure she knew how to fight, instead of just how to hunt. Cullen had noticed her training after a while, and took to waiting for her at the base of the hill she trained on, as he dismissed the recruits to dinner around the same time that she returned to Haven. They would walk back to Haven’s gate together, chatting amiably, and he eventually asked what she was doing on the hill. In his office in Skyhold, Tamsin runs her fingers over a long, thin scar running down her cheek. She’d told Cullen, back then, that she would never become complacent with her skills as a fighter. 

The surgeon’s words pop into her mind, and she realizes in a burst of clarity that she has found herself outpaced by her enemies yet again. And so she begins to train in earnest. Heir, the assassin, begins to take her out on two-day excursions into the mountains, and runs Tamsin through grueling drills that leave her sore, shaking, and much too exhausted to think of anything outside of the task right in front of her. That single-mindedness gives Tamsin relief from the constant ache in her chest, and so she takes refuge in training, in pushing herself hard every day. She doesn't think about the fact that she put the mirror in her room into a closet and has yet to get it out. She settles into the idea that her bed will only have her in it from now on, and gives the Inquisition everything she has. 

After a month and a half of this, her friends step in. Tamsin is in the kitchen, eating an apple and listening to the head cook talk about grain shortages, when the woman glances up over Tamsin’s shoulder and stops talking. 

Tamsin turns around to see Vivienne, of all people, standing in the doorway. The enchantress looks so out of place in the kitchen, with her immaculate white clothing and regal bearing, that it’s almost comical. “Will you excuse us?” Vivienne says to the cook, but it is not a request, and soon they are alone in the kitchen. 

“Can I help you?” Tamsin asks, frowning. Why is Vivienne here? And in white silk, no less. Surely she knows that even passing through the kitchen chances soot or soup stains. The cook likes to accost passers-by to sample new recipes. 

“My dear,” Vivienne says, “you have been positively morose these last few weeks. I do understand the merit of letting sorrow play itself out, but this is getting out of hand.”

“I… what?” Tamsin’s frown deepens. “How is it getting out of hand? It’s not like things aren’t getting done, Vivienne.”

“Oh, I am aware of that.” The enchantress glides forward, and Tamsin resists the urge to lean away. She is very fond of Vivienne, but the woman is _intense_. “The problem is not your productivity. It’s your self-care.” She reaches forward and picks up Tamsin’s braid, examining it like a particularly unimpressive trinket, and then lets it fall from her fingers. 

“You’re being a little insulting.”

“Such is the price of honesty.” Vivienne fixes Tamsin with a look. It’s not quite a stare, not quite a glare, but it is a commanding, intimidating, and decidedly displeased expression. “I do not know exactly what has happened, though I can surmise the essence of it, given your sudden stark separation from our resident elven apostate.” Tamsin flinches at the mention of him, she knows she does, and it’s a minute movement, but Vivienne sees it and raises an appraising eyebrow. “Hmm. Whatever troubles you must run its course, my dear, but there is no need for you to appropriate the aesthetic of a mouse while it does.”

“A mouse?” Tamsin asks, incredulous. Vivienne takes a small step backwards and gives her an imperious once-over. Tamsin glances down at herself, at the pale brown of her daily wear and the tight tuck of her arms against her body, which she didn’t even realize she was doing. 

“Dorian, Josephine, and I depart for Val Royeaux in the morning, and you are coming with us.”

“I… what? Josephine’s going? I can’t leave. There’s too much to do.”

“It will get done whether or not you are here,” Vivienne said firmly. “You have very capable advisors, and I have already spoken with Cassandra about providing the third voice for your council while you are gone. Leliana can address any diplomatic problems that may arise, and should she come across something Josephine must attend to, our spymaster has the fastest ravens in Ferelden.”

“Have you already planned this all out?” Tamsin asks, a little bitterly. 

“Of course, my dear.” Vivienne turns, skirts sweeping behind her and somehow stirring up absolutely no dust or soot. “We are leaving after breakfast. Kindly don’t be late.” 


	2. Wherein the Mouse Gets a Haircut

Tamsin is not late. 

Vivienne and Josephine ride in a carriage, of course, escorted by a half-dozen Inquisition guards. Tamsin and Dorian, quite uninterested in the ride for very different reasons, range out around their party, occasionally vanishing at first light and rejoining their companions after they’ve made camp for the night. 

“Why are we going to Val Royeaux?” Tamsin asks at some point. Vivienne gazes at her steadily and does not answer. Josephine dons that diplomatic, secretive little smile of hers and says nothing. Tamsin turns to Dorian, who raises an eyebrow at her. 

“Don’t look at me. I was accosted to flesh out this party, seeing as the alternative was Cassandra, and four women traveling with a parcel of soldiers would be positively _scandalous_.”

She doesn’t ask again. 

When they arrive in Val Royeaux, Josephine promptly goes to see about their accommodations in a town home owned by some lord or other. Vivienne gives the soldiers a short lecture on behavior while they are in the city, and then they all make their way to a cafe with _darling_ tea cakes, according to Dorian, who finds no shortage of material for his derisive sense of humor. Josephine meets them there, and at a sweet smile and a quiet word from her, Dorian’s snark stops. Tamsin finds that rather alarming… but the tea cakes are good.

“Now then,” Vivienne says, when they have all had their dainty tea and crumpets, “Dear Inquisitor.”

Tamsin frowns. “I already don’t like where this is going.”

“It will be fine,” Josephine assures her. 

“Dear Inquisitor,” Vivienne repeats, with a stern look at Tamsin for the interruption, “You have of late—“

“But wherefore I know not,” Dorian interjects, quoting a famous Orlesian play, and Vivienne frowns at him. 

“Must I gag you, darling?”

“I’m afraid you haven’t the equipment to make it fun,” Dorian replies, but he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, indicating that he is done interrupting. 

Vivienne turns back to Tamsin. “You have of late, my dear, been moping about in a most uncharacteristic fashion. We believed that it was a temporary condition, but it has been more than a month, and you have not improved. Matters of the heart—“ Tamsin scowls. Does everyone know? “—must be allowed to run their course, but there is no reason to submit before the despair that has seemed to have consumed you.”

“Despair?” Tamsin asks. “I’m hardly despairing, Vivienne.”

“Sweetheart.” Dorian leans forward and picks up the tail end of Tamsin’s braid. “Do you see this?”

“Yes.” She snatches it out of his hand. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

Vivienne seems all too ready to provide a list of problems, but Josephine steps in. 

“Allow me to reframe it, Tamsin,” she says, her accent and the kindness in her voice softening the edges of her words. “You have been upset, and it is showing in your appearance and behavior. You are the able and driven leader of the Inquisition; no one is calling into question the leadership you have shown over the last few months. We are not here as your advisors or companion warriors. We are here as your friend. You have not indulged in some time, and we strongly believe it will do you a great deal of good.”

“And Maker knows you need it,” Dorian adds. Josephine shoots him a look, and he shrugs. “What? Our Inquisitor appreciates honesty.”

“Come.” Vivienne stands, forestalling any more bickering. “We have an appointment to make. It would be rude to be late.”

 

 

The appointment, Tamsin finds, is with a hair stylist, who coos over her long white locks and washes them with a shampoo smelling of mint and sugar. She also gives Tamsin a _delicious_ head rub, so that by the time Tamsin is seated back in her chair, her tension and faint resentment towards her friends for tricking her into this have completely dissipated. 

“You look happier already.” Dorian pulls up a chair, ignoring the hairstylist’s frown, and leans back in it, resting his ankle on the opposite knee. “Told you.”

“I never said you were wrong,” Tamsin replies evenly. “Only that it wasn’t necessary.”

“And were you wrong about that?” 

“We’ll see.”

The hairstylist suggests a few very ornate, very Orlesian styles, but Tamsin insists on a refresh of her same cut. She repeats herself twice, and then looks to Dorian, who stands and fetches Josephine.

“Dearest Mademoiselle Cheveaux,” Josephine says, “I am so delighted that you were able to fit us into your busy schedule. Your skill is renowned. I understand your desire to provide the Inquisitor with a more fashionable option, but she has proven to be very sure of herself in all things, and I am afraid that attempting to change her mind will be entirely ineffective. Of course, we are grateful for your desire to provide the Inquisitor with only the best, which I am sure your enthusiastic suggestions represent, as it would be quite rude to ignore her wishes.”

“Of course,” the woman murmurs and Tamsin raises her eyebrows at Josephine, who merely smiles sweetly and leaves to rejoin Vivienne next door.

When Tamsin emerges from the shop, she feels lighter than she has in weeks. Her hair swishes around her shoulders, the weight of an intricate braid keeping the long section out of her face. . The stylist had merely trimmed the ends and cropped close the hair above and behind her left temple, as Tamsin had requested, but she delights in it all the same. 

“You’ve got a bounce in your step.” Dorian appears by her side and slides her arm into his. “Admit that we were right.”

“We shall see,” Tamsin repeats evenly, but she can not hide the smile on her face. Josephine beams when she saw Tamsin’s hair, while Vivienne simply nods approvingly.

“I thought you would disapprove of the cut,” Tamsin says to Vivienne a little while later, as they stroll down a wide, sunny street towards their next destination. 

“Whyever for?” Vivienne asks, looking down with surprise. 

“It’s not conventional.” Tamsin reaches up and runs her fingers along the braid. “Probably doesn’t translate well for Orlesian power plays.”

“Indeed not, my dear, but you are an elf, which harms any hopes we may have for Orlesian power plays. But I can see that you are comfortable with that style. It is almost painfully obvious. You would not be you with anything else.” 

Tamsin blinks up at her, surprised and pleased by the subtle affection. Vivienne gives her a small and reserved, but genuine, smile, and they continue on.

 

They make four more stops. First, a parfumerie, under the guise of allowing Josephine to buy a new bottle of her favorite scent, but at Dorian’s urging—“You can never smell too good. If you walk into a hall full of nobles with some divine perfume, you could be wearing a sackcloth and they would still pay attention to you.”—she leaves with a small vial of perfume that smells of sweet mint and a hint of embrium. It makes her strangely happy to wear it. She realizes later that the perfume smells nothing like Solas, and the fact makes her smile. 

Next, a cobbler. Again, her companions indulge themselves as well, and Tamsin realizes that this is genuinely a group outing, not an intervention for her. The knowledge gives her comfort, and when Josephine calls her over to examine a ridiculously bejeweled pair of slippers, she giggles with her, and doesn’t squash the “ooh” of fondness when she spots a beautiful pair of supple leather boots. 

She leaves the store without having purchased anything, though Josephine and Vivienne both have new purchases of their own. A little while later, Dorian slips up beside her. “Dreaming of something tall dark and handsome?”

“Hmm?” she looks at him, confused and a little startled.

“Those were some fine boots,” he said, his eyes twinkling at the joke. “I spotted a pair I rather liked, too. We may have to go back.”

Third, a bookstore. This is a love that Tamsin has no trouble indulging. Vivienne and Josephine get tea at a nearby cafe while Tamsin and Dorian disappear into the stacks. They both emerge with massive armfuls of books, and discover to their delight that they have similar taste. 

They also have _expensive_ taste, Josephine notes drily, and observes to the Inquisitor that while the funds for this purchase are certainly available, it will dip into the money budgeted away for their last stop, so perhaps it would be best to trim down their selection. Tamsin feels a little like a child denied a sweet, but she and Dorian work together, and in the end they emerge from the store with a tidy assortment of books on a variety of useful topics, and a second-hand early copy of a Hard in Hightown volume, the inside cover of which has been lovingly inscribed with _Elisa, my darling, you will always be my Hightown._ It took them a minute to catch the entendre, but when they did, Tamsin had to muffle her giggles against her fist, and Dorian had declared, “We cannot leave without that. Varric will be _delighted_.”

They stop for lunch at a lovely small restaurant that happily serves both them and the pair of soldiers still in attendance, and makes no fuss about their armor and boots inside. Tamsin murmurs about this, and Vivienne laughs lightly. “My dear, did you think I would frequent a restaurant that shows no respect for our soldiers?”

“Of course not, Madame de Fer,” Tamsin purrs, but she is smiling, and Vivienne raises an approving eyebrow at the twist of respect and teasing in her voice. 

When they approach their fourth and final stop, Tamsin balks. ”Why are we here?” she asks, frowning at the storefront. “Josie, you have no shortage of attire, and I know Vivienne has her clothes custom-made.” 

“It’s for me, dear,” Dorian purrs in an eerie imitation of Vivienne. Tamsin shoots him a frown and points to the sign: _Mme_ _Vetement: seamstress and purveyor of fine clothing for the gentlewoman._

“Damn, I really through you were going to believe that one,” Dorian sighs. Josie steps forward on Tamsin’s other side.

“Inquisitor, you are in need of new attire. Your armor is, of course, in excellent condition, but you have worn the same outfit within Skyhold since we arrived, and as the Inqusition’s power grows, occasions which present a need for formalwear, or at least more feminine clothing, will arise.”

“That brown and gold ensemble you wear also fits you horribly, darling,” Vivienne adds. Tamsin sighs. 

“Fine.”

She has no idea what she’s agreed to. As soon as they walk in the door, a tall, curvy woman with a beautiful silver filigree mask comes sweeping towards them, arms outstretched. “Vivienne, my dear,” the woman says, exchanging kisses on the cheek. “it has been too long.”

“Indeed, Cosette.” Vivienne turns. “May I present Master Dorian Pavus, Mistress Josephine Montilyet, and the Inquisitor, Tamsin Lavellan.”

“Oh my dear, you always had such excellent taste in friends.” There is no sarcasm in her tone, Tamsin realizes. Either Cosette Vetement has an immaculate Wicked Grace face, or she meant what she said. “What can I do for you?” 

“The Inquisitor is in need of a new wardrobe. Josephine and I would speak with you aside, Cosette. Tamsin and Dorian will, I am sure, explore your exquisite work.”

“Of course,” Cosette coos, and the three women move to a corner of the shop.

“Do you ever feel like a child being herded around by her?” Dorian asks grumpily. Tamsin doesn’t respond. “Oh come, Tamsin, you must—“ he turns to look for her, and realizes that she has disappeared among bolts and bolts of silk and brocade.

Tamsin doesn’t hear him approach, even muttering as he is about Vivienne and the maze of fabric. She is tracing a delicate woodland pattern embroidered in pale green on a deep olive silk.

“So, I take it you don’t actually mind shopping for clothing.” He sidles up to her, raises his arm to pull the trailing edge of a bolt above them so he can examine the design. 

Tamsin glances at him, and her face grows warm. Dorian smiles at her. “Don’t be embarrassed. Too many people see fine clothing as a luxury, but it should be treated the same as good food: get it whenever you can.”

“I…” Tamsin looks back up at the fabric surrounding them. “The Dalish don’t have much in the way of fabric variety. It’s pretty much cotton and wool.”

“I never would have guessed, from Solas’s delightfully varied wardrobe.”

The mention of his name doesn’t even phase her, she is so transfixed. She misses Dorian’s surprised eyebrow as well. 

“I always wanted to dress like the women in the cities we visited. Once we happened upon a traveling troupe, and they put on a show. Their clothing… I had never seen anything that vibrant or ornate in my life. I dreamed about it for weeks.”

“Why haven’t you indulged?” Dorian frowns at her. “The Inquisition has been around for more than half a year, now. Surely it crossed your mind.”

“Well sure, but why would I?” Tamsin shrugs. “There’s no fancy event I need to attend, and I wear my armor most of the time anyway. All I need for that is trousers and an undershirt. There’s no reason to indulge.”

“Oh, there’s a reason.” Tamsin looks up at that. 

“What?”

“Your face.” Dorian reaches forward, taps her cheek. “You are enraptured. Imagine wearing something made of that green brocade, Tamsin, or the blue silk over there.” He watches with interest as Tamsin’s face goes a little dreamy. “This will be fun.”

“Madam Inquisitor?” Cosette’s sweet voice calls from the other end of the shop. Tamsin winds through the maze of racks and when she emerges, Vivienne looks very pleased, and Josephine looks amused.

“What?” she asks them. They say nothing.

“Madam Inquisitor, if you would.” Cosette indicates a slightly raised dais. Tamsin glances uncertainly at Josie, who nods, and then steps up onto it. Cosette whips a measuring tape—which she thought was a kind of necklace, as the back of it is gilded and the ends are studded with small gemstones—and begins to measure, dictating numbers to an assistant who appeared when Tamsin wasn’t looking. 

“Now then, Vivienne tells me you are Dalish,” Cosette says, still measuring.

“Yes.”

“I presume you are accustomed to simple clothing? Homespun fabric, rough lines, the like?” Tamsin bristles a little.

“I wouldn’t say that,” she says, and her tone is slightly clipped. “We bought our fabric in the cities of the Free Marches. There was plenty of fine cotton and linen, hardly ‘homespun’.”

“Of course.” Cosette bows her head, contrite. “Forgive me. I did not mean to be rude.” Measuring finished, the seamstress steps back, and looks up at Tamsin.”How do you feel about linen? Silk? Brocade? Cashmere? Tulle? Lace? Leather?”

She doesn’t wait for Tamsin’s response, only watches her face closely as she lists the fabrics, then turns to her assistant and speaks quietly. 

“We will be back in a moment, madam. You are welcome to take a seat.”

Tamsin does.

“Feeling overwhelmed?” Dorian asks conversationally as Josie presses a glass of something cool into her hand. 

“Yes,” Tamsin says simply, and sips at the drink gratefully. Oh, it’s fizzy, she realizes, and vaguely alcoholic. 

“If you would like, Inquisitor,” Josephine says, “I would be happy to help you stay focused. I believe you need at least three dresses of varying complexity, one piece of military formal wear-“

“No reason that cannot be a dress,” Vivienne says mildly. Josephine nods. 

“Very true. Also two, perhaps three new outfits for daily living? Three, I think, so you have an extra to pack should you travel to a village or town where rogue armor would be a bit much. And another for receiving audiences. Not a dress, I think, but something imposing and streamlined.”

“Versatility is always appreciated,” Vivienne murmurs.

“Inquisitor?”

“Hmm?” Tamsin has already forgotten the question.”I’m sorry, I…. that seems like alot of clothing.”

“You are the Inquisitor, Tamsin.” Josephine’s voice drops with the seriousness of her statement. “Being able to adapt to any situation with attire as much as manners will serve you and the Inquisition very well. We can afford it, and you have earned it.”

“In more ways than you know,” Dorian adds quietly, but before Tamsin can ask what he means, the seamstress and her assistant appear with bolts of fabric and folded clothing, and everything becomes much more overwhelming. 

Tamsin looks pleadingly to her companions the first time the seamstress asks her a question (“How do you like this skirt, Inquisitor? The pleated A-line is very in vogue this season, but I think something smoother would suit you better.”) and her friends promptly step up, Dorian offering wry comments to keep her amused while Vivienne and Josephine skillfully navigate the communication gap between Inquisitor and seamstress. 

In the end, they order her gowns and ‘formalwear’ to be custom-made. Tamsin’s not entirely sure what she just agreed to, but she knows which fabrics caught her eye—deep greens and blues, a lavender reminiscent of her eyes, a swath of stunning scarlet silk—and by her expression, Vivienne approves of her choices. 

The new day-to-day clothing that she needs is part of the stock of clothing the seamstress keeps half-made, but it needs to be finished and tailored. Cosette bustles Tamsin into muslin shells, measures, marks, and pins, and then eases it off over her head without sticking Tamsin with a single pin. 

“I will have these taken in by midday tomorrow, madam,” she says as she accompanies them to the door. “I presume you will pick them up on your way out of town?”

“Yes. Thank you, Cosette.” Vivienne leans in and the women exchange cheek kisses again, and then they are on the street, which is flaming scarlet from the setting sun. 

“Let us retire for the evening,” Vivienne suggests. “Darling, you look exhausted.”

“Me?” Tamsin glances up at her, and nods slowly. “Yeah. This was a long day.”

“Was it a good day?” Josephine asks. 

“Yes,” Tamsin replies firmly. 

“And were we right? Was this necessary?” Dorian needles. Tamsin gives him a look.

“I’ve yet to decide.”

“Oh, come on, now you’re just stalling.”

“Perhaps.” She smiles sweetly at him. “But I learned from the best.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Vêtement' is French for 'clothing', singular. Aren't I delightfully clever?


	3. Wherein Tamsin Discovers a Deep Love of Fine Fabrics

They dine in that night, on rich Orlesian food that leaves Tamsin wonderfully, painfully full. They all find their way to the sitting room after dinner, where a servant employed by the house’s owners—who are at their summer estate—serves delicious amber whiskey and small sweets. Tamsin fishes a book out of the pile of purchases from earlier that day and settles in front of the fire, eschewing the chairs for the plush carpet. Dorian joins her in reading, though he opts for a chair, and Josephine works on some overdue correspondence while Vivienne does… something. It looks like she’s writing in a journal, but that seems so strange that Tamsin rather thinks she may as well be plotting her takeover of the country. 

“You were right,” she says eventually, breaking the comfortable silence that has reigned for a while. Her companions look up, some faster than others; Dorian is the last to look up, as he must finish the line he is on and place his finger to mark his place, first. 

“About what?” he asks.

“About this being necessary.” Tamsin rolls her shoulders, delighting in the shift of her shirt, heated by the fire, against her back. 

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn't catch that,” Dorian says, leaning forward and cupping one hand around his ear. 

“You were right,” she sighs, and he positively _beams_.

“I could get used to hearing that.”

“You do not need another false inflation of your cosmic ego, my dear,” Vivienne purred. 

“What do you mean, Tamsin?” Josephine asks. When they’re not in the presence of outsiders, she seems perfectly content to forgo Tamsin’s title for a time.

“I didn’t know how hard I was pushing myself. I was getting things done, and I thought that was enough. But this…” she gestures with one hand to them, to the sitting room, to the lights of Orlais outside their window. “This is wonderful. Thank you.”

“Of course, my dear,” Vivienne said, and her voice sounded almost gentle. “Your face is lighter than it has been in weeks. I must say this was a good idea.”

“It was your idea,” Dorian points out. 

“Yes, and it was a good idea,” she replies smoothly, and Tamsin smiles happily and returns to her book. 

She sleeps on a bed that is almost too soft, but she wakes more rested than she has been for weeks. It takes her until she is walking downstairs to join her companions for breakfast to realize that she watched herself in the mirror while braiding her hair, and was pleased with what she saw. The realization sets a small bubble of joy in her chest that warms her from the inside out. 

“Tamsin,” Dorian says over breakfast, “You are glowing. I cannot wait to see how radiant you become once we get your new clothes.”

“Thank you, Dorian.” Tamsin reaches up to touch her braid, and pulls a free lock of silver hair through her fingers. “It… I’m happy.”

“It is not at all apparent,” he replies, but there is no sarcasm in his voice, and when Tamsin meets his eyes, his expression is gentle and affectionate. She makes a face at him, and he laughs. “And the radiant creature vanishes, replaced by the gremlin that we all know and love.”

Vivienne sighs. “Inquisitor, kindly do not throw your biscuits."

 

Cosette lights up like a magelight when they walk in the door. “My dear Inquisitor,” she says, “Please, come this way. I must say I finished this tailoring faster than even I expected. I am so eager to see how our choices suit you, as I am sure you are, too.” 

Tamsin lets the seamstress bundle her into a changing room, where an assistant waits with four pale green boxes. “We’ll have you don each, just to check the fit, and then we have your travel attire ready, if you would like to wear it on your journey home.”

“I follow your lead, mistress,” Tamsin says, a little bit of Vivienne’s civilizing influence showing up, and Cosette smiles at her. 

She and her assistant slide Tamsin in and out of outfits too fast for Tamsin to get a bearing on how she truly feels about them. One of the shirts is a little big—Cosette clucks with disappointment, pins it swiftly and hands it off to another assistant, who runs to tailor it—but everything else fits like a dream. The fabric is cool and soft against her skin, and she gets fleeting impressions of deep jewel tones and finely worked details. Finally, everything has been checked, trimmed, and either approved or tailored, and Tamsin finds herself sitting on a plush stool, wearing only new smallclothes under a silken robe. Vivienne, or perhaps Josephine, had snuck them into the order; she thought it a silly indulgence, the fabric too light and airy to practical, but she must admit she loves the feel of the feather-soft cotton and lace—lace! An indulgence if ever there was one—against her skin. 

“Tell me, Inquisitor.” Cosette gestures to the wall, where her clothing hangs beside her riding leathers. “Which would you like to wear to show you companions?”

Tamsin stands and drifts over. She trails a finger along one sleeve, a little too awestruck to form any concrete thoughts. She is so used to her old clothing that this attire, austere though it is by her companions’ standards, seems overwhelmingly rich. Here is a jacket of a batiste so deep violet it is almost black, with immaculate paneling that nips in at her waist and will make her shoulders look broader than they are. Here a blouse, of a fine burgundy linen, with cuffs that button with small jet stones and cut-outs in the shoulders that are overlaid with a gossamer fabric. And here… oh, Tamsin’s breath catches in her throat. Here, a swath of steel-colored raw silk. It is a tunic, with a queen-style neckline that rises high in the back and cuts over the front of her shoulders, leaving her décolletage bare. Or it would, if the front were not covered with an organza so fine she can barely feel it, and embroidered with fine lace. Lace should be a feminine thing, delicate and ladylike—indeed, the lace near her nethers is just that—but something about this pattern is strong and winding, and reminds her of a tree’s branches reaching up to the sky. 

“I can see it will be this,” Cosette murmurs, and gestures. Her young assistant comes forward and slides the tunic from its hanger. Tamsin lets the seamstress slip her robe from her shoulders, and steps into the slim, jet-black trousers another apprentice holds for her. She feels no shame about allowing these women to dress her, which is strange in and of itself. Tamsin is a _private_ person. But here, in this plush and warmly lit dressing room, with her finely braided hair falling over her shoulders and the scent of mint and flowers on her pulse points, she feels… well, frankly, she feels like a woman, and a powerful one. Is this how Vivienne feels all the time? It is a lovely feeling. 

The assistant undoes the clasps, which are hidden within a seam underneath the left arm, and the buttons at the back of the collar’s neck. Tamsin must lower her head and maneuver her arms at the same time to get it on, but with the seamstress’s assistance it is a simple task, and she thinks she won’t have a problem doing it herself. 

“There we are.” Cosette does up the buttons at the back of Tamsin’s neck just as the assistant finishes securing the clasps on her side. She adjusts Tamsin’s hair, ensuring that none of it is caught by the jacket, and then steps back. Her assistants wheel in a full-length mirror, and the Inquisitor turns to face it. 

There is no moment of shock, no fairy-tale _is that really me_? Instead, when Tamsin sees the woman in the mirror, she feels something inside her fall into place. 

The steel grey silk is striking against her pale skin and paler hair, but the effect is imperial instead of overwhelming. Tamsin adjusts her hair, pulls it over her shoulder so the white and grey are side-by-side, and eyes her reflection. She had no idea, truly, that clothes could so perfectly encapsulate who she tries to be, but here that woman is, and she is a sight to behold.

Tamsin supposes that she draws more inspiration from Vivienne than she knew. The two women look nothing alike, and indeed share little in the way of personality or forms of authority, but Vivienne is a beacon of feminine power. Others _notice_ when she walks in the room, and when she chooses to speak, no one ignores her. 

Tamsin is a rogue, an assassin. Being unseen is of course a very good thing, at times, but looking at herself now, Tamsin understands what Vivienne meant when she compared her to a mouse. Withdrawing from view and going unnoticed are two entirely different things. If she chooses to be seen now… 

Tamsin smooths her hands down the front of the tunic, feeling the rich rasp of the raw silk against her palms. Cosette steps into the reflection, and smiles at her. 

“I presume you are pleased?”

“I am…” Pleased is such a poor descriptor. “I am in awe of your skill, Madame Vetement.” Cosette blushes prettily, the pink seeming almost girlish.  

“Come, milady,” she says, and Tamsin does not miss the change in address, “let us show your companions.” Instinctively, Tamsin shrinks a little inside her tunic, and the seamstress places a finger under her chin. “Oh no, Lady Inquisitor, you must not do that. You travel with imposing companions, true, but you are more than their equal in every way.” She turns and looks at their reflection in the mirror, and Tamsin follows her gaze. “I daresay you would give darling Vivienne a run for her money, if you kept your shoulders back and your head high.” Tamsin raises a dry eyebrow, and Cosette smiles. “Truly. I do not lie.” 

“Very well.” Tamsin takes a breath, rolls her shoulders back. The silk rustles and settles on her skin deliciously, and her anxiety dissipates. 

Her companions turn when she enters the room, and their conversation dies. For a moment, no one says anything. Tamsin, somehow, does not shrink before their silence. 

Finally, Dorian breaks the silence with a laugh. “Oh Tamsin,” he says, standing, “I take back everything I said.”

“Everything you said?” Tamsin repeats, confused. 

“Everything I said about your light expression, your glowing face, your radiant presence.” He strolls forward, looks up at her on the dais that Cosette has placed her on. “My words were woefully insufficient. You, my dear Inquisitor, my friend, are an empress.” He takes her hand, kisses the back of it, and Tamsin can feel both his usual smirk and a deep, genuine respect in the gesture. 

“You are too kind,” she murmurs and flicks his nose with a finger, breaking the solemn mood. Dorian laughs brightly and steps back. 

“He speaks the truth, Inquisitor,” Josephine says, coming to stand at Dorian’s side. “I must admit,I will be greatly amused to see how our noble guests react when you greet them so. I imagine the rumors surrounding our organization will change in very entertaining ways.” 

“More mutterings about the heathen Dalish in her borrowed finery?” Tamsin jokes lightly, but there is a small knot of worry in her stomach. 

“Not at all.” Josephine smiles up at her. “They will marvel at your grace and power. I imagine the tree motif will become very big, next season.”

“It will,” Cosette says firmly from behind Tamsin. “I will see to it.”

“And be rewarded for your forward thinking, I am sure.” Vivienne, finally, stands, setting the glass she has been sipping from on a small table beside her chair. “And you will deserve every moment of renown, Cosette. You have outdone yourself.” 

“You are too kind, Madame de Fer.” 

“I speak the truth. Come here,” Vivienne says to Tamsin, and Tamsin, utterly emboldened by the surge of confidence within her, simply raises an eyebrow at Vivienne’s command. 

Beside her, Dorian inhales, and Josephine goes still. The room is _electric._ Vivienne raises her own eyebrow at Tamsin, and the arch of black against her flawless skin is a gesture perfected by years of practice, but Tamsin finds that here, for a moment, she is not intimidated. 

And then, smoothly, as if there had never been a break in her words, Vivienne adds, “please, darling.” 

Tamsin steps off the dais and approaches the enchantress. She almost expects to see some kind of disapproval in Vivienne’s eyes, but if anything the woman looks a little impressed. “Darling,” she says, stepping to the side to examine Tamsin’s profile, “I must be honest with you. I presumed you to be an innocent bystander catapulted to the front of a movement much greater than yourself.” There’s truth in the summary, but Tamsin can’t help but feel that there’s a hidden insult in it, too. “It is now readily apparent that your position is not simply the product of fate, but one that you have taken upon yourself and grown into.” She returns to stand in front of Tamsin, and her gaze is, for the first time since Tamsin can remember, transparent. “Lady Inquisitor.” 

Vivienne has never before called Tamsin by the title, and Tamsin feels the weight of the esteem settle onto her shoulders. “Madame de Fer,” she murmurs, “you do me great honor.” From the smile on her companions’ faces, it’s the right thing to say. 

“I am afraid,” Josephine muses, “that as divine as the clothing is, you cannot ride in it, and we must leave Val Royeaux soon if we want to reach the mountains before dark. 

“Of course.” Cosette gestures to Tamsin. “Your riding leathers, my lady.”

Her travel clothing, to Tamsin’s complete and utter surprise, is divine. She expected Cosette’s hand with leather to be a bit less skilled than her hand with finer fabrics, but the woman has thought of everything. Tamsin has a fine linen blouse to wear under her jacket, to keep the leather from rubbing, and her trousers are lined with cotton. “It’s easily replaced, dear,” Cosette adds, showing Tamsin where the seams anchor the cotton to the leather, “should the need arise.” The jacket and trousers are streamlined, simple, close-fitting things that fill the intended purpose of comfort and flexibility, but more than that, they are _soft_. The leather is buttery under Tamsin’s hands, and she finds herself stroking her own sides in a rather strange manner as she follows the assistant back to the shop’s front. 

“A little infatuated, are we?” Dorian asks, but his smile is cheerful, and when Tamsin wordlessly proffers her arm, he strokes the leather and ‘ooh’s appreciatively. 

“We have a present for you, Inquisitor,” Josephine says, gesturing to a young man that Tamsin had noticed and then dismissed. He approaches and places a large, heavy box into her arms. “To complete your ensemble.”

Tamsin shoots her a curious look, but Josephine merely smiles, and so she sets the box on a chair and lifts the lid. 

She cannot hold in the gasp that escapes her. The boots she had admired the other day lay inside the box, nestled against a bed of muslin. A small bag fills the space between them, and she later discovers that it holds oil for conditioning and a small vial of polish. 

“Your boots are fine, but they’ll look like shit next to that,” Dorian says cheerfully, indicating her new clothing. “Don’t look so surprised, Tamsin. Feel the bottoms.” She obeys, and her eyes widen. The soles are thick but incredibly supple, and when she slips a hand inside one boot and presses it against her other fist, she can feel the curve of her knuckles through the leather.“We had him remake the soles, since you elves have such a strange fascination with going barefoot. You can’t exactly tromp around in your stocking feet everywhere, but we thought these would help make up for our demanding customs.”

“They’re wonderful.” Tamsin looks at her companions, and feels her throat constrict as a sudden wave of emotion overtakes her. “I…”

“Don’t,” Dorian sighs, slinging an arm over her shoulder. “If you want to thank us, write some endearing and entirely too-formal notes and have them delivered in gilded baskets. Put the damn boots on, Tamsin, and let’s hit the road.”

She does so. 

 


	4. Wherein the Mouse Vanishes

The ride back to Skyhold is joyful. Tamsin’s new clothing is _sublime_ , and she feels like laughing with delight at every turn. She challenges Dorian to a race twice. He declines both times—she is riding Da’Revas—but when she spies a rise of hill in the distance and implores him to explore it with her, he can hardly say no. She feels as though she may as well be wearing pajamas, for how much comfort and freedom the leathers afford, and it must show in her face. When they draw their sweating mounts to a stop at the top of the hill and dismount, Dorian immediately reaches over and grabs her chin. 

“I take back what I said earlier,” he says, scowling at her. She blinks at him. 

“What?”

“I take back the part where I took back the part where I said you were glowing.” Tamsin is utterly confused, now, but Dorian kisses her on the forehead and gives her a playful shove. 

“You are luminescent, Tamsin. I may have to lace your face soap with nettles next time we go somewhere important. Not being the center of attention gets old very quickly.”

“Oh Dorian,” she replies cheerfully, “You’re welcome to try.” He glances at her, and she pats his cheek, slipping one of her small knives from her belt with the other hand. Dorian doesn’t see her grab it, and he doesn’t see her throw it; next thing he knows, there is a dagger quivering in a tree trunk an inch from where his horse’s face was, and the horse in question is taking off down the hill. 

“Damn it, Tamsin!” he cries, and raises his staff. She can see his mind working as he tries to think of a spell that will bring his steed back. Tamsin laughs. 

“Da’Revas,” she calls, and her hart looks up. She gestures, and the lavender beast trumpets and trots off after Dorian’s horse. “I promise, Dorian,” she adds, moving to retrieve her blade, “that I will never steal the spotlight from you when it most matters.”

"That is hardly a comfort,” he grumbles, but seems mollified, and when Da’Revas returns leading his horse, he rides beside Tamsin instead of hanging back and lighting fires at her heels. 

When they stop for the night they are not a three-hour ride from Skyhold, but it is late and the air is cooling rapidly, so they opt to make camp instead of pushing through. The soldiers and Tamsin track down a mountain ram, and they all eat well that night. One of the soldiers takes a great deal of care to skin the ram without marking the hide, and when asked, admits sheepishly that he has been studying with Harritt, as he wants to learn to make armor. Tamsin is deeply intrigued by this, and offers one of her obsidian blades to help with the process, which delights the soldier to no end. He is quite content to explain what he is doing to the Inquisitor as he skins the ram and then, as the meat is roasting, trims the hide. He promises to show Tamsin whatever he makes, even—at her insistence—if it’s not very fine, and when Tamsin retires to her tent that night, she can hear the soldiers murmuring quietly about her interest. Improving herself in the eyes of the soldiers hadn’t been her intention, but it was a nice bonus. 

They take their time breaking camp the next morning, and Vivienne insists that the soldiers groom their mounts and polish their armor until both shine. She also suggests that Tamsin change into her grey raw silk. “You are the Inquisitor, my dear. No more returning to Skyhold morose and battle-weary. Brush your beast until she shines, and ride into our keep like a queen. Let them wonder what we have done during this short trip of ours. An air of mystery will serve you very well in these things.”

Tamsin glances at Josephine, who nods. “Madame de Fer understands the importance of currying influence, Inquisitor. These soldiers with us adore you, and they’ll convey that to their fellows. This will not make you seem unapproachable.” Tamsin wonders at the ambassador’s perceptiveness. Is Tamsin really such an open book? Or is she just surrounded by exceptionally insightful people? “It will be awe-inspiring.”

“Take the dramatic entrance,” Dorian advises from several paces away, where he is polishing his boots. A soldier is grooming his horse for him, and Tamsin makes a note to find the man later and reward him for his patience with the Tevinter mage. “You need it.”

“Alright, alright.” Tamsin raises her hands. “I hear you.” And so she changes, dons the grey silk and rebraids her hair. Josephine nods approvingly when Tamsin emerges, and moves to do up the buttons on the back of her neck without being asked. 

“Inquisitor,” she says, and the address is loaded with respect and even a kind of joy. Tamsin grins at her advisor, and is delighted when Josephine responds with a full-bodied smile of her own. 

She wants to race up the hill towards Skyhold, and Da’Revas dances under her, but at Vivienne’s advice they proceed at a more stately pace. Tamsin does range out in front of the carriage and their escort, Dorian beside her, and so they are close enough to see the battlements when the trumpet cry of greeting rings out. They are close enough to see the soldiers scurry to open the portcullis, as usual—they are close enough to see when the routine action falters, soldiers turn to each other and a handful of green-and-brown figures race off, and they are close enough to see when the congregation on the battlements grows. Soon, it is joined by specks of color, which they can tell even at a distance belong to a handful of their companions—Sera’s red and yellow, Iron Bull’s hulking grey-brown, and the burgundy and brown of Cullen’s armor. 

“Sit tall, dear.” Tamsin turns to see Vivienne approaching, perched like the grandest of ladies on a white horse. 

“Who’s…?” 

“One of our soldiers. Don’t be silly, I didn’t force her to walk. I lent her my mount for the journey, should I wish to ride. She is driving the carriage and seems quite grateful for the respite. Besides, it will not do to have soldiers peering at the carriage when it is vacated, as it is still full of your purchases, and we are attempting to maintain some mystery. Josephine is capable of moving discreetly, but if we were both to ride in it, our exit would not go unnoticed.”

“You do think everything through, don’t you?” Dorian muses. 

“It’s called being thorough, dear, and it is a product of thoughtfulness. You may care to try it sometime.” 

Tamsin doesn’t bother to comment on the jab. Under her, Da’Revas quiets, seeming to understand the importance of this approach. She lifts her head proudly and steps with the smooth, even gait only a hart could manage, and her hooves ring regally on the stone as they cross Skyhold’s bridge.

 There is a strange hush as they enter the courtyard. Tamsin does her best to ignore it. She swings down from Da’Revas’s back, plucks an apple from her saddlebag and offers it to the hart, who crunches down with singular delight. 

“Inquisitor.”

Tamsin looks up. Cullen is walking down the steps, hand resting on his sword’s pommel, and his back is straight and his shoulders back. She wonders why he looks so official, and then realizes that he’s mirroring _her_ bearing; she has not stood so tall in a very long time. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Commander.” Tamsin glances to the side as one of Dennet’s hostlers approach, and hands the boy her hart’s reins. Da’Revas lays her nose on Tamsin’s shoulder for a moment before allowing herself to be led away, and it feels like a benediction. “I trust everything is well?”

“Indeed. Leliana and I would discuss a few matters with you, if you have the time. It’s not urgent.”

“I am all yours.” Josephine appears on Cullen’s other side, smiling sweetly.

“Commander.”

“Ambassador.” He inclines his head to her as well, and offers her his free arm in a purely chivalrous gesture. Tamsin is not sure how she feels about the fact that he didn’t offer the same to her. “Care to join us?”

“Of course.” They both glance at Tamsin, who takes the hint and takes the first step. They walk up to the keep shoulder to shoulder, Cullen providing a brief report of the goings-on in the few days they’ve been away. Behind her, Tamsin can hear mutters starting. She half expects them to be derisive, but they sound almost reverential. 

Cassandra’s eyebrows raise when Tamsin enters the war room, but she looks as though she approves, and greets Tamsin warmly before delivering her brief report and taking her leave of them. Leliana looks quite pleased, if unsurprised, and as they discuss new developments in the Inquisition’s holdings and connections, Tamsin realizes something. 

She made a choice, back in Val Royeaux, to be something more than a Dalish _da’mi_. She will always have her heritage, and Solas will always have a place in her heart, but when she put on her silks and braided her hair back just so, she took a conscious step forward, away from him and the part of her life he presides over. Mourning the end of what she had with him, and nursing her way through the feeling of betrayal, will take time, but there is no reason that she cannot also use that time to define who _she_ wants to be. She is Tamsin Lavellan, a Dalish hunter, child, sister, aunt, friend, and the Inquisitor. She gets to decide what that last part looks like. 

“Inquisitor, what do you think?”

Tamsin forcibly returns her train of thought to the current conversation. She looks over the war table, gestures for the report Cullen holds, examines her choices. 

“Send gold and soldiers to assist the arl,” she decides, “and stop in villages along the way to spread the Inquisition’s message and find recruits. Josephine, if you could write a letter of introduction for whichever commander Cullen sends with them?”

“Of course.”

“Leliana, please send your forces to protect my clan. I hope it’s nothing serious, but I think it’s better to be paranoid than too trusting.” _And_ , she thinks to herself, _we can’t risk Inquisition forces on protecting them, since our soldiers are as likely to be killed by my clan as the bandits._ “I would like to send a letter with your skirmishers for my Keeper, if I may.”

“If you get it to me by the end of the day, it will reach them before nightfall tomorrow.”

“Thank you.  …I might be crazy, but is anyone else really interested in this bee thing Sera’s got?” 

Her advisors look at her with curiosity, and Tamsin grins. “Picture using a slingshot to fling a ball of angry bees into the middle of an unsuspecting group of bandits. It would be utter chaos.”

“Inquisitor, I think  you have a bit of a sadistic streak,” Cullen observes drily.

“Oh, I do.” Tamsin’s grin only widens. “Josephine?”

“I will send runners,” she replies, looking more than a little amused. 

“Should we break for a meal? I’m getting hungry, and I need to check in with a few of our people, but I want to discuss how our preparations for Adamant are going.”

Her advisors agree, and they leave the council chamber. Tamsin makes for the rotunda. She intended to accost Dorian and ask where their book purchases went, but when she walks through the door, Solas is standing in the archway, examining his fresco with a brush in hand. 

“Lethallan,” he says, surprised. 

“Solas,” she replies, and finds to her great surprise that she has a smile for him. “I need to speak with Dorian, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” He steps aside, and Tamsin passes him, her heart twisting at his familiar scent. 

“Tamsin,” he says quietly, just as she reaches the base of the stairs. She stops and looks back at him. 

“Yes?”

“You look well.” She knows him well enough to know that there is a bittersweet quality to his voice, likely some mix of want and resignation. “I am glad.”

Tamsin simply looks at him. There’s a lot in that sentence, she knows there is. Solas returns her gaze evenly, his steel blue eyes unreadable. She remembers what those eyes look like in a genuine smile, or filled with desire so intense they seemed to glow, and her heart twists again. 

“Thank you, Solas,” she says quietly, and hopes he can feel the weight in her words, too. Solas nods, but doesn’t look away, and she waits. 

Finally, he glances down at the paintbrush in his hand, turning it almost nervously for a moment, and then looks back at her. “Are you happy, lethallan?” he asks, very, very quietly. The room feels a little cold, suddenly, as if the surge of honesty brought with it a blast of snow. 

“No,” she replies truthfully, and Solas’s face shifts, his eyebrows quirking and mouth tightening. He doesn’t like that response. “But I will be, Solas. Are you happy?”

“I see. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“Of course.” She smiles at him. She didn’t miss the part where he ignored her question, or the emotion deep in his eyes. Solas inclines his head to her, and she turns and continues up the stairs. 

She told the truth, she thinks, pausing just before reaching the landing. She is not okay, not quite yet. But she will be. 


End file.
